


3:41 AM

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re my closest friend. This is what friendship entails, Sherlock. Sticking tough, no matter what one or the other is going through.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	3:41 AM

It is three sixteen AM.

“You don’t _understand_ , John,” Sherlock spits, his voice nothing but acid. “I am not a normal man.” He’s pacing, pacing the sitting room, fisting his hair. “I am broken, ruined, nobody has the patience for me. I am a _chore._ ”

“Sherlock,” John cuts in before he can go any further. “You’re not broken, you’re not ruined, and you’re not a chore.” His leg is beginning to throb, centering for the most part around the knee, right where the psychosomatic pain gets him each and every time.

“Then _what am I?_ ” Sherlock demands, voice shaking and face contorted in the nastiest expression John’s ever seen. “If I’m not broken, ruined, a chore.” Sherlock yanks his hands from his hair, runs one palm over his face, and stuffs his other hand in his trouser pocket.

The silence stretches longer, only broken by the ticking of the clock on the mantle that seems to grow louder with each passing second. Sherlock collapses into his chair with none of his usual grace; he is a tangle of limbs and angles and self-loathing. It is three twenty-two AM.

“Why do you bother with me?” Sherlock seems a mere shadow of himself, but John only purses his lips and gathers his words as best as he can. It isn’t that saying the wrong thing will make this mood of Sherlock’s worse, it’s that John fears saying what makes Sherlock draw back into his shell, pull up his defenses, and John will have lost all of his progress on deciphering Sherlock himself.

“Because,” he begins gently, licking his bottom lip before Sherlock can see and graciously pretending not to see the tears gathering in Sherlock’s eyes when he looks up, “You’re my closest friend. This is what friendship entails, Sherlock. Sticking tough, no matter what one or the other is going through.”

John wants to get up from his own chair and take the two steps separating their armchairs and gather Sherlock and all his sharp corners into a hug; he feels that’s what Sherlock needs. But it isn’t what Sherlock _wants_ , so he refrains, steels himself, and instead starts to stand to head for the kitchen and the electric kettle and mismatched mugs and bagged tea.

Sherlock’s voice stops him. “Nobody has ever been this patient with me,” he grinds out, as if it pains him to say so. John, however, knows that tone and knows Sherlock is relieved. Grateful, even. “It isn’t _fair!_ ” he explodes, then, springing up to begin pacing again. “It isn’t fair that it has taken this long to find someone that _cares_ and doesn’t just _care_ out of _familial obligations._ ”

Sherlock’s walls are completely down, John realizes now. “I know,” he says as he follows Sherlock’s path from one end of the sitting room to the other with his eyes. There is so much more he wants to say bubbling beneath the surface, but he can’t quite figure out how to formulate it so Sherlock will _understand_ , and what comes out instead is a soft-as-breath, “I know.”

Then John decides that now is as good a time as any and pushes himself up out of his chair. “Let’s get some tea in you,” he says, setting a hand at the small of Sherlock’s back and a hand on his elbow and guiding him to the kitchen. He is dutifully ignoring the stuffy sniffles and hitching breathing coming from Sherlock, as he knows that once Sherlock is out of this mood of his, he’ll be denying it ever happened, the prideful sod. “If you happen to get a paper towel and mop up, I won’t notice. I’m busy making tea,” he says pointedly, turning his back to the detective to busy himself with the kettle.

As he’s opening the cabinet to pull down their favorite mugs—one tall, thin, and black; the other short, wider, and white—he hears the telltale sound of paper towel perforation ripping and keeps his back to Sherlock. He know Sherlock will thank him when they’ve both had tea and gotten sleep.

It is three forty-one AM.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those therapeutic sort of things. You know, where you write something to feel better? Yeah. Also this may or may not be based on a conversation I actually had.


End file.
